


Grandson of Kronar

by Domingo Ocelot (docelot)



Category: Oglaf
Genre: Dildos, F/F, Pregnancy, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docelot/pseuds/Domingo%20Ocelot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Son of Kronar continues her mighty line in a rather unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grandson of Kronar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Three_Headed_Monkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Three_Headed_Monkey/gifts).



“I am Kraldor, son of Kronar. For a hundred generations my fathers have kept the bloodline pure. Free from woman's taint.

“Well, almost.

“To say my father was upset when his husband bore a girl would be an understatement. There was something about a 'bow of shame'. Obviously, I was too young to remember, but apparently something about a ten-minute-old child slaying every wolf in the wolf pit had an effect on him, and he decided maybe I was okay after all.”

“Kraldor! Are you soliloquizing in there?” The voice of my father's right-hand man, Torgok, cut in.

“No! I told you I don't do that! Can't a woman have any privacy?!”

He was a good man. We'd taken to sniping playfully at each other when we weren't too busy being serious and striking fearsome poses. He couldn't keep up his tone playful tonight, though.

“Your father sent me to fetch you. He needs to discuss a matter of great importance.”

Yeah, I knew what this was about. “I'll be out shortly.”

* * *

I took a few moments to clean myself up – did I say I hadn't been soliloquizing? That wasn't entirely true – and pushed back the hide flap of my hut, walking out into the cool, smoky night air where the last traces of sunset were disappearing in the west. The camp wasn't large, and the rocky path led me straight down to my father's much larger hut.

The big man himself was seated on a heavy wooden chair in the middle of the tent. Why did a nomadic chief own a heavy wooden chair? All I knew was that I'd managed to weasel out of carrying it to a new campsite more times than I could remember. Kronar's heavily-pregnant husband, Toldar, sat to his right. Without the benefit of a heavy wooden chair, alas.

“Father. You sent for me?” Yeah, old man, I know that look, and I know exactly what you're going to–

“Kraldor, it is time to continue our bloodline.” His tone and expression were identically grave. We'd been through this conversation so many times that I was amazed he could still summon up that much gravity for it.

“Father, we've discussed this. I am your son, but... I am a woman. I don't have the necessary equipment to sire a–”

“I have accounted for this.” Okay, that was new. And a little worrying.

“A plan?” I asked.

“The blacksmith has been working on something for me. Or for you, rather.” At this he reached over to the shelf beside him, picking up a plain deerhide drawstring bag. It seemed to hold something oblong.

Oh my.

“Um...” I reached out, and he set the bag in my hand. Somehow, I didn't really want my father to handle the contents any more than absolutely necessary.

Through the bag's mouth, the hut's dim light gleamed coldly off metal. Pulling the bag open revealed pretty much what I'd thought. I'd seen these devices before, but this one was particularly impressive. It wasn't that it was particularly large, but the surface was ornately decorated with runes, cut smoothly and shallowly so as not to – well, you get the idea. Smooth leather straps were clearly intended to secure it against my hips.

“It's very nice, father, but I'm not sure how it will help.” I had a feeling I hadn't heard the whole of this plan, though.

“As it is now, Kraldor, it will not. However, the wizardess Morga owes me a favor, and I trust that her magics will be up to the task of making it more... helpful.”

* * *

So that explains how we ended up trudging through late spring snow in the lower reaches of the Dragonshaft mountains on the way to Morga's cave.

“I hate to ask how much further,” said Torgok, shaking a rock from his boot for about the thirty-fifth time, “but how much further?” He and I had both had the good fortune of missing the last similar outing.

“Not much further at all,” replied my father in a mildly-disgruntled tone, probably wondering how he'd ended up with such a wimp for a right-hand man. “In fact, Morga's cave is right around this cor-”

“Kronar, Son of Man. I have foreseen your coming.” Morga – I had to assume – stepped from the bushes on the left side of the path. She proved to be a lot less old-and-dried-up and a lot more young-and-attractive than I'd expected. “Well, and I saw you from the bluff up there,” she added.

“Wizardess! I have come to collect on the favor you owe me.” My father stepped forward, the wind blowing majestically through his loincloth.

“Favor? Oh, yes, that thing with the king. I suppose we can consider him humiliated, even if he did fob you off on his...”

“Hmmh. Honest mistake. This is my son.” When he gestured to me, Morga raised her left eyebrow. “She requires some assistance in continuing our line.”

To her credit, she didn't ask any of the obvious questions. She'd clearly dealt with my father before. “I take it you have brought something for me to enchant?”

I offered the bag, and she met my eye as she reached out to take it. Drawing out the tool, she looked it over approvingly. “This is fine work. It will hold the enchantment nicely. Kronar, if you and your man would excuse us. This will take a few hours and we must not be interrupted.”

My father, ever the eloquent orator, let out a grunt of acknowledgment, finding an appropriately-mighty stump on which to park his mighty backside while Torgok busied himself harassing the local plant life. Morga took my hand firmly, leading me back into the bushes where a faint path parted the trees.

“I take it your father is opposed to you continuing the line in the obvious way, then,” she said, as we trudged through the undergrowth.

“Him? I didn't even ask. I think he'd have a heart attack. A very manly heart attack.”

“Probably. Well, no matter. Modern magical techniques and what-have-you.”

We'd come up to a tall, narrow cave opening; inside, the walls opened out and the space within was quite accommodating. A small fire burned in the center, venting its smoke through a natural chimney in the rock. Well, most of it. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to smell of campfire for the next three days.

“Sit by the fire, Son of Man, and we will get started.”

I settled myself cross-legged on the rock, and Morga seated herself across from me, the tool in her hands and her fingers tracing the runes on its surface. She managed to make it look lewd, but I supposed that wasn't so much of a stretch considering it was, in essence, a stout metal penis.

“Spirits of fertility, hear my call – Kronar's son must continue her line. And yes, spirits, I know Kronar's son is a woman and there's an obvious way to go about this, but you know how he is.”

 _Do I,_ came a weary, ethereal voice that seemed to be all around us. _He does like to do things the hard way, doesn't he?_

“So to speak,” said Morga, a smirk pulling at one corner of her mouth. “In any case, he has done the things I asked of him, and I now ask you to help me repay him.”

 _Fine,_ replied the spirit, _but you're going to owe me. Bring the yak butter this time, and we'll make an evening of it._ The runes on the tool took on a faint green glow.

“And so it goes,” said Morga, moving closer and reaching for my hand. “This will hurt a little.”

Taking a small knife from her hip, she scored my palm shallowly – which did indeed hurt, as promised – and dipped her index fingertip into the bead of red that welled forth, then touched that fingertip to the end of the tool. The green glow of the runes brightened, starting at the tip and creeping down the shaft.

“I invest this mighty shaft with the lifeblood of... what did you say your name was, again?” She looked at me quizzically.

“Kraldor.”

“...with the lifeblood of Kraldor, Son of Man!” She thrust it skyward, or rather ceilingward, the entire assembly pulsing yellow-green. After a few moments, the light faded, leaving the faintest of glows.

“So is that it, then?” I'd expected the ritual to be a lot more elaborate.

“Yeah, that's it. Not as impressive as you thought, then, hm? I think you'll like the result, though...” There was a certain gleam in her eye as she lowered the tool and ran her fingers along it, then offered it out to me. I took it and... oh, my. It was warm to the touch and thrummed with life, barely feeling like metal anymore.

“You will need to put it on,” she said. “This ritual is not yet quite complete. It needs to attune itself to your...”

I was already shimmying out of my loincloth. Morga eyed me with amusement, then sat back to watch me strap the thing across my hips, cinching the straps tight. Something was definitely attuning itself, and a very pleasant sensation hummed through my groin. The tool – which I'd begun to think of as my honor – stood taller from my lap, though that might have been my imagination.

“And now,” said Morga, leaning forward, “we will need to try it out. I can't send you back to your father unless we know it works, can I?”

I sensed she'd gone off script, but under the circumstances I was feeling pretty okay about that. “Of course not! He would be furious if it didn't work.” I smiled. “You planned this out, huh?”

She laughed. “I improvised a bit. You're more pleasant than I expected of any offspring of Kronar's.”

My turn to laugh. “Oh, he's not so bad. Well, okay, maybe he is, but at least he comes by it honestly.”

She pressed a hand against the middle of my chest and pushed me back against the rock, and I don't mind telling you my honor was tested several times that afternoon. I have a dim memory of having moved to a soft pallet of furs at some point, which was welcome relief to my aching back and hips. Clearly wielding this was going to take some practice.

* * *

It was several hours later when I finally emerged, my honor thoroughly tested and my gait slightly wobbly.

“My son! Is the ritual finished?” My father stood up from the stump where, by all indications, he'd been sitting for the entire intervening period.

I'd taken the tool off and put it back in its bag, which was now slightly damp. “Yes, the ritual is finished. It was quite a ritual.”

He smiled gormlessly. “Blood and thunder! Let us go, my son. We will find you a husband among the sturdy men of the neighboring tribes.”

* * *

A couple months later, we were still looking. Several men had expressed interest until they'd realized that I was supposed to impregnate _them_ instead of the other way around. Who knew they'd be squeamish about that?

Anyway, I was in my hut soliloquizing when Torgok called for me from outside. I pushed back the hide flap to see him standing with Morga, who was looking a bit... oh, my. She smiled sheepishly at me. Her belly was a tad on the round side.

“So, it works,” she said. “Perhaps a little too well.”

I stood there and quietly gawked at her for a long few moments.

“This is going to be very difficult to explain to my father...”


End file.
